Measure of a Medic
by MariaShadow
Summary: G1, post 2005. Jazz, Ratchet and First Aid


Measure of a Medic

The smoke had stopped rising from ruins of Autobot City, but the acrid stench still lingered as Jazz walked across the once flawless promenade that lay before the command centre. He had come here not long after Rodimus Prime had been installed as the new Autobot Commander in Chief, seeking to see the truth with his own optics.

Gingerly, the black and white stepped over the rubble strewn liberally around the area. Hoist and Grapple hadn't even begun orchestrating the reconstruction yet, being more concerned with first removing the dead and preparing for them an appropriate resting-place.

A broken wire still snapped fitfully from a shattered wall as Jazz entered the main building. The marks of devastation were written everywhere, punctuated with blast patterns and carbon scars. Jazz let out a bitter sigh as he remembered what it was like when the place had finally been completed.

_"Niiiiiice!" Jazz grinned as he looked around at the gleaming City; it's towers reflecting back the warm summer sunlight with a warm orange hue. "I ain't seen nothing like this since th' beginin' of the war."  
"Agreed!" Wheeljack nodded as he and the rest of the Autobots gawked at the imposing fortress Hoist and Grapple had designed. They had all seen the plans and sketches, but actually being there was a totally different thing altogether._

_"C'mon, race ya to the north tower!" The ever irrepressible Sideswipe called out as he transformed and roared away, his tyres leaving a set of thick rubber burns on the gleaming tiles, much to Grapple's very vocal dismay. Jazz was almost sure he'd done that on purpose._

Not really paying attention to where he was going, Jazz wandered listlessly through roofless halls illuminated by the waning moon. Deeper into the complex, he relied on his excellent night vision, a must for any saboteur. It was only when he reached a set of swinging double doors that he realised where he was. The repair bay.

Jazz raised one black hand to push open the doors then hesitated; unsure of what, or who, he might encounter. After an uncharacteristic moment's deliberation, he gently opened one door and silently crossed the threshold. Surprisingly, the web of smaller rooms and one large operating theatre/post-op ward had remained untouched. Because of the debris and a fire blocking the only access, the wounded had been taken to a smaller secondary facility in the south quadrant of the complex, so the main repair bay was still relatively pristine.

The black and white let a small smile touch his lips as he surveyed the cavernous main room that was once the focal point of Ratchet's domain. When he had heard that Hoist was starting to design the medical centre, the big white medic had walked down to the architect's workroom, casually plucked the preliminary sketch from the Hoist's hands and replaced them with his own detailed plans. And that was that. Nobody in their right mind argued with Ratchet, and if they did, it usually wasn't for very long.

As he looked around, Jazz could see Ratchet's touch everywhere: from the orderly and efficient layout of the repair berths, each with their own diagnostic array, removable tool trays and other undoubtably handy attachments that had been sorely lacking in the Ark to the iso-wards and the small medics lounge furnished with wide couches perfect for catching a few minutes worth of recharge.

A thin glint of light drew Jazz across the ward and to the very back of the complex. The door to what would have been Ratchet's office was slightly open, light wells connected to the roof admitting a sliver of moonlight. The medic had insisted on a door with hinges, possibly just so that he had something to slam instead of automatically sliding shut behind him.

Jazz felt almost like he was intruding as he entered the _sanctum sanctorum _of Ratchet's world. Though visitors were usually welcome in the repair bay itself, _nobody_ entered Ratchet's office without an express invitation from the CMO.

There wasn't much inside, a desk and chair, a filing cabinet, a TV, and three boxes stacked by the door. After ensuring that everything else was in order, the medic had only just begun moving his things from his old office to his new one when Prime had reassigned him to the moon bases. The moon bases… Jazz shook his head violently to try and rid himself of the still raw memories. He was about to leave when his sharp optics picked out a flat case placed on the desk.

Natural curiosity reared its head as Jazz walked to the desk and carefully snapped open the latches on the battered container. He lifted the lid to see a neat row of carefully packed tools. Ratchet's tools.

A sad smile graced Jazz's face as he lifted a scratched and battle worn laser scalpel from the foam surrounding it. For as long as Jazz could remember these tools had gone everywhere with Ratchet. These were _his_, and may Primus have mercy on the poor fool who used them without permission. But why leave them here? The question nagged at the saboteur as he put the laser back and removed a hefty wrench from the box.

Jazz ran his fingers over the surface, delicate tactile sensors picking out each gouge in the metal. These were top quality tools, built to last millennia. But combat was hard on both 'bots and their equipment, and these things looked about ready to fall apart, though they were far from it. His fingertips picked out a dent marring the end of the handle. Jazz remembered with crystal clarity the occasion that had caused this mark to arise.

It had been not long after the war started. He'd been called to help search for survivors in the ruins of Crystal City, along with Ratchet, Wheeljack, and a sizeable detachment of warriors. They had been looking for about a cycle when someone unearthed a comatose Bluestreak. Everyone had crowded around to take a look, and that was when the traumatised survivor had woken up.

He had taken one look at the crowd around him and was off like a shot, sprinting like the hoards of the Great Unmaker were on his heels. Ratchet saw the situation, snatched up the closest thing at hand, which happened to be the wrench, and snapped his arm down, sending the wrench flying through the air to connect with Bluestreak's helmet and dropping the panic stricken mech like a stone.

That was when Jazz had found out about the medic's very good aim and very strong throwing arm. There had been further demonstrations of this innate talent throughout the years, like when Sideswipe had lobbed a paint bomb though an open doorway into the officer's lounge in Iacon. Ratchet, moving faster than Jazz had thought he could, dove to the floor, caught the brightly coloured projectile, and flung it right back at the red mech. The squawk of Lamborghini surprise had been priceless.

Jazz reverently placed the tool back into its case and was about to leave, but a soft scrape caught his attention. He silently moved to the door and pressed his back to the wall beside it, a gun materialising in his left hand. Jazz leaned ever so slightly around the doorframe to see a ghostly white form moving slowly though the rows of berths. For a second Jazz thought he saw Ratchet standing there, head bowed and one hand resting on the edge of a metal bed. But the moment passed, and the black and white realised it was First Aid.

He subspaced the gun and stepped into view, calling a soft "First Aid?" as he did so. The young mech looked up, startled. "Hello Jazz, I didn't expect anyone to be here." He said as Jazz approached.  
"So, what are y' doing here?" Jazz queried. He knew the medic had only recently arrived from Cybertron and figured he would have been getting acquainted with the native populace instead of being here.

"Well, I…" First Aid trailed off and looked away.  
"Y' miss Ratchet, doncha?" Jazz asked sympathetically. First Aid nodded.  
"He trained me." The Protectobot explained. "I wanted to..." He trailed off again and changed the subject. "Ratchet designed this facility well."  
"That's a given." Jazz replied, taking another look at the orderly rows of berths, enough to treat at least half the Autobot forces at once. "Ol' Doc Ratch was always grousing on about the Ark's repair bay, sayin' that it wasn't designed to handle what we gave 'im. Even the expansion wasn't enough. So he made sure this place was better."  
"He did indeed."

They stood in silence for a moment; each lost to his own thoughts. First Aid was the one to break it. "Ratchet… he was a good teacher." He said quietly, looking at the floor. "He taught me a lot."  
Jazz felt asad smiletug at his face. "Taught everyone a few things, the Ratch-man did. Mainly that he cared. That's the measure of a medic, that y' care." Jazz put one hand on the other mech's back. "An' I can tell y' learned that lesson well. Lemme show y' something."The older mech steered the younger toward Ratchet's office. "Go on, open it." Jazz gestured to the case sitting on the desk.

"These are Ratchet's tools." First Aid said softly, running his fingers over the metal shapes for a moment, then putting the box down. Jazz picked it up and put it in the medic's hands. "I know." He said. "An' I think the Doc wants ya t' have 'em."  
"I can't take these." First Aid protested.  
"Yes you can." Jazz replied. "I think he knew his time was endin'. That's why he left 'em there, for you. You're our CMO now kid, it's only fittin' that you have em'."

First Aid looked at Jazz, then down at the dented and scraped box in his hands. "I'll never replace him Jazz, you know that." he said.  
"I ain't suggest y' try." Jazz said. "But y' do have the mark of one heck of a medic, an' I know Ratchet wouldn't trust this accident prone bunch o' ours t' anyone else. You get?"  
"I get."

"C'mon," Jazz said as he put an encouraging arm around First Aid's shoulders. "let's head back."

Fin


End file.
